After a charging bison comes between her and her latest skip, a bounty hunter must rely on the survival skills of her park ranger rescuer…

Note: This 5,400-word short story exists in the Montana Bounty Hunters world. The story features bounty hunter Martika Mills from Hardman.

Get your copy here!

Before I introduced Marti Mills in the Dead Horse bounty hunter series (she’s the heroine of Hardman), I wrote a short story featuring her that appeared in First Response: A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology. Marti was fiesty and mouthy, and I loved her from the moment she appeared on the page. She was a bounty hunter, but unaffiliated with any Montana Bounty Hunter agency. The hero of the short story? Well, he’s a park ranger in Yellowstone. So, when I wrote Marti’s story, set in Dead Horse, the ranger wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I still have him in the back of my mind. He has to be part of a story set in the new Yellowstone bounty hunter books. Would you like to meet him? Get your FREE copy now!

Read an excerpt…

If not for her GPS device, Martika Mills wouldn’t have had a clue where she was. All she knew was that she was soaked to the skin, mud sucked at her boots, and two days into this hunt, she was no closer to finding Marlon Oats.

Earlier that morning, after sliding a twenty to a gas station attendant on the Montana border, she’d thought she was getting close. She’d gotten a description of the car Marlon had “borrowed” on his flight into the wilderness and had found it parked in a narrow roadside viewing point, just inside Yellowstone National Park.

After that, she’d followed the narrow stream into a deep gully off the road, knowing Marlon considered himself quite the fisherman, or so his mother had said. No doubt he intended to live off the land until the heat died down after he’d failed to make his date with the judge in Helena, where he was due to be tried for robbing a pawn shop in Springdale at gunpoint. His mother had been very helpful, liking the fact that Marti seemed like “a nice girl” who might “ask” her son to let her put him in handcuffs rather than shooting him. His mother didn’t want Marlon hurt, even though his skip might cost her the home she’d lived in since she’d married Marlon’s no-account, long-dead father.

Marti was just about to call it a day, figuring she had just enough daylight left to get back to her SUV parked behind Marlon’s at the roadside park, when she spotted a puff of dark smoke rising over the gully. Noting its direction, she climbed up a steep embankment, seeking footholds in mud and rock and grabbing vines along the sides of the rocky face until she stood at the top and realized the land on this side of the stream was flatter and filled with tall spring grass—and a herd of buffalo that didn’t seem to pay her any mind as she bent over and dragged in deep breaths. She glanced at her hands braced on her knees and grimaced because they were covered in mud, which she shouldn’t give a shit about because her jeans were streaked with dirt as well.

Marlon had a lot to answer for, but thoughts of the rich bounty she’d score kept her from throwing in the towel. Her mother liked to say that stubborn was her middle name, which was a quality that worked well in her line of work. She always got her man because she never, ever gave up. She’d been bounty hunting for nearly four years now, the last one going solo because she didn’t like sharing her bounty with a partner or an agency, although she was considering working for one again. Agencies often served as bail bondsmen, too, and therefore had the downlow first on the richer bounties. Fetch Winter from Montana Bounty Hunters had been working on recruiting her to join a new satellite office he was trying to get off the ground in Dead Horse, Montana, to service southwest Montana and into Wyoming. He needed hunters with experience, and he’d heard good things about her.

She’d heard good things about the agency, too, if you discounted the cable TV show that followed his hunters out of Bear Lodge. Fetch gave his crews a higher percentage of the bounty than most agencies did, and he’d assured her that he wouldn’t be looking to do any spin-off series featuring his other offices, but he had admitted that the bonuses for the hunters who permitted the production crews to accompany them were very generous. The job was hers, if she wanted it. But first, she had to find Marlon Oats.

Trying her best not to draw the herd’s attention, she walked along the edge of the ravine, keeping within the narrow line of trees standing along the edge of the ravine as she made her way toward the place she believed a campfire had been lit.

As she drew closer, she stayed hidden and peered into a clearing. A small tent had been pitched, one that had seen better days. One of the screen windows was torn, and one of the poles that held up the tarp over the door was missing. But she couldn’t make out whether anyone was presently occupying the campsite.

Just then, she heard movement coming from the stream below and a soft off-key whistling. Hunkering down, she waited patiently until the person climbed over the edge of the embankment and stood.

“Marlon, you sweet idiot,” she said under her breath. Her heartbeats quickened, and she drew slow breaths. She needed calm, not adrenaline, to get closer to her target.

Marlon strolled toward his campsite holding a string of four fish, which he lowered into a pot beside the fire. As he began taking them out, one at time, gutting and filleting them, and then tossing the pieces into a pan he’d filled with oil, she moved closer, choosing her footsteps carefully, grateful for the chorus of gargling grunts from the buffalo nearby that masked the sounds her feet made in the suctioning mud.

She studied Marlon to see what challenges he might present. A rifle leaned against the tent, and he held a knife in his hand. Slowly, she dropped her backpack to the ground and drew her own 10mm Remington from the holster on her thigh, and then began to work her way toward the edge of the tree line, knowing she’d eventually have to expose her position to prevent him from making a move toward the rifle.

Soft chuffing grunts sounded from the herd, but she ignored the animals, keeping her gaze fixed on the more dangerous game in front of her.

Then she stepped on a twig, and it snapped.

Marlon’s gaze swung toward her position, and his eyes widened. His gaze shot to the rifle, but she shook her head.

“I’m a Fugitive Recovery Agent, so you know why I’m here,” she said, keeping her tone low and hard.

Eyes still wide, his body tensed as though he was preparing to bolt upwards and make a run for it.

“Don’t even think about running,” she bit out.

He blinked, and his gaze went to something behind her. “Bitch, you might want to think about making a run for it.” Then a smile stretched across his face as he slowly stood and waved his arms.

What the fuck…?

Then she heard it. A deep, gargling grunt. With her handgun still held in both hands in front of her, she darted a glance behind her.

A large bison bull faced her from about twenty feet away, his head lowered toward the ground, his gaze fixed on her.

UPDATE: The winner is…Theresa Privette!
*~*~*

For those who don’t know, the Lunar New Year celebration marks the first new moon of the lunar calendar. It’s a 15-day festival period that happens this year between January 29th and February 4th. This year, millions of Chinese communities are celebrating the start of the Year of the Snake. There are parades, quiet moments of prayer, and lots of food. In fact, I’m going to talk my daughter into picking up Chinese food tonight so we can have a little celebration and introduce the kids to another holiday that I think needs to be added to our rotation. Any excuse to celebrate, right? More like, any excuse to eat good food. I’ll also light some incense and think about the family members we’ve lost in recent years and to wish luck and happiness to all my family and friends.

Most of us know our traditional Horoscope/Zodiac signs, right? Do you know what your Chinese Zodiac symbol is? The Independant has a nice summary for you to figure out what your zodiac symbol is. Follow the link to find out what yours is. I was born in 1958, in the Year of the Dog.  Here are some of the qualities a “dog” possesses: “Loyal and friendly, they make the best companions a person can have. Sometimes they can be stubborn but always find their way back to balance.”

For a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, solve the puzzle, then find out what Chinese Zodiac animal you are. Do the qualities your symbol represents fit you? And are you ready to add the Lunar New Year to your yearly calendar of celebrations?

The Memory Puzzle

UPDATE: The winners are…Roxie Jones, Steph, and Debra Guyette!

*~*~*

I’ve told you all before that I love my Montana Bounty Hunters. From the first stories in the original series set in Bear Lodge, MT, I tried hard to make each of the bounty hunters individual rather than cookie-cutter characters with different names. I loved devising unique takedowns because they’re fun to write, and they showcase who these men are. I especially loved writing Hook because I got a chance to take a deep dive into the research to make his disability real and still make him sexy as hell. I hope you enjoy his story!

Hook

MONTANA BOUNTY HUNTERS: Authentic Men… Real Adventures…

Former Army Ranger, Dylan “Hook” Hoecker, has a new job along with a new prosthetic arm. Being a bounty hunter is the closest career field he could find as a civilian that gives him the adrenaline rush that is his addiction. So, when his first solo assignment is to keep an eye on a flight risk the boss bonded out of jail, he’s not thrilled. However, he soon discovers a fresh addiction—one mouthy, nerdy redhead, who resists his attempts to keep her out of trouble.

Felicity Gronkowski is grateful for the bone the head of Montana Bounty Hunter threw her. She didn’t have the money to pay for bail, but he has a soft spot for former military, and she bartered to install a new computer system in his satellite office in Bear Lodge. Being on the outside of jail was her first imperative because she has to figure out who framed her for a series of high-end robberies while she worked installing home security systems. However, her bounty-hunting babysitter isn’t giving her any slack. Every time she thinks she’s given him the slip, he’s one step ahead of her. Either she has to find the perfect method of distraction to escape him or she has to enlist his help to clear her name.

Contest

Are you all caught up reading the original Montana Bounty Hunters series?

For a chance to win a download of one of the stories you may have missed
(I’ll pick three winners!), tell me this:
I am currently thinking about stories to add to my MBH Yellowstone series. Do you have any ideas for fun stories or perils my hunters might face in Yellowstone?

Here are all the Bear Lodge Montana Bounty Hunters! Yes, it’s an old meme, but do you really care? 

MONTANA BOUNTY HUNTERS: Bear Lodge, MT
Authentic Men… Real Adventures…
Reaper: https://amzn.to/2NztLpv
Dagger: https://amzn.to/2zo6Dav
Reaper’s Ride: https://amzn.to/2KKkisI
Cochise: https://amzn.to/2zq4avV
Hook: https://amzn.to/2UrpyYh
Wolf: https://amzn.to/2yUTjr5
Animal: https://amzn.to/2H4Roob
Big Sky Wedding: https://amzn.to/33GprwK
Quincy: https://amzn.to/2QlleM8
Brian: https://amzn.to/2ZV8m2G

Excerpt from Hook:

Dylan “Hook” Hoecker had no problem keeping pace with Dagger and Cochise as they raced along the dark alleyway, following the skip they’d tracked to a gun shop in Libby. Scooter James had made the crew the moment Dagger entered the premise. Perhaps it was Dagger’s burly physique that had tipped him off, or maybe he was just nervous having three intense-looking dudes enter the store, but he’d run for the back exit.

No, Hook’s legs had never been an issue. He ran like the wind, easily leaping over a barrel Scooter dumped on its side, hoping to trip them. Beside him, Dagger cursed, and Hook couldn’t help smiling as the big guy went down. This skip was his. When he reached the end of the alley, Scooter veered left and ran through a stand of motorcycles, tipping over one, which sent the rest slowly falling like dominoes. Bikers sitting at outdoor café tables nearby rose and filled the street, shouting and moving toward their Harleys, forcing Cochise and Hook to push past them.

Cochise went down when one biker stuck out a foot, perhaps angry that their chase had scratched his ride.

Hook waved his prosthetic arm, which, sometimes, had even those who weren’t so tight with the law pausing and giving him a break. He didn’t mind one bit using his disability to give him an advantage. He shouted out a “Thanks, man,” when one biker rolled his bike forward to clear his path.

Now, it was just him following the slap of Scooter’s Adidas on the pavement. Hook paced himself, forcing himself to keep his breathing even so he’d outlast his target. He didn’t use every bit of his strength to close the gap, because he knew he’d need anything extra to take the fucker down once he began to slow.

In his mind, Hook thanked his physical therapist, who’d concentrated on helping him make the adjustment to his new circumstance, learning to use his prosthetic, but who also continued to meet him on the track three or four mornings a week to make sure he worked out the rest of his body to help, not only keep him toned for the work he did, but to keep his dark moods at bay. Raydeen Pickering was a hero in his mind, because she went the extra mile for every man and woman she accepted into her treatment program.

Ahead of him, Scooter ducked into another alley.

“He’s turned again,” he said, knowing the others could hear him through the radio in his earpiece. “Left, into an alley.”

“I’m behind you,” Cochise said. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“I’m cutting through another alley. Will try to get to the street before he does,” Dagger said in his ear.

Hook went left and entered an alley lit by a single golden bulb at the back door of a restaurant. He ran past rank-smelling trash bins and plastic bags but didn’t see his mark ahead. “Don’t see him,” he said, and then slowed and turned.

Something dark swung at his head, and he held up his right arm to deflect the blow from a two-by-four from a pallet, no doubt. But the board hit plastic and metal and bounced off. Hook swung under it with his left, catching Scooter in the chin. Their target dropped like a sack of rocks across a row of trash bags lined up on the dirty, smelly pavement. Read the rest of this entry »

UPDATE: The winner is…Dawn Roberto!
*~*~*

I live with two grumpy old cats. The one above is Pumpkin, who adopted me. The first time I met her she was feral and wandering on the edge of the forest behind our house. I began leaving her food on the other side of the fence because I was worried about her. She was small for a cat and looked rather pathetic. I fed her daily, but she never approached when I was there. I’d watch as she waited for me to disappear inside, then from my window, I’d observe her eating the food I left.

Then one night many years ago, I had set an alarm to get up in the middle of the night to go outside and watch a large red moon. I felt something making figure-eights around my legs. When I glanced down, I was startled to see this cat (and so glad it wasn’t a raccoon!). She’d come to trust me, and slowly, she went from being a skittish outdoor cat to being a cat who refuses to step outside. She now lives in my bedroom, taking up the space on my recliner.

Tessa is the other elderly cat who inhabits my space. The two cats despise each other, and if they meet in the doorway as one comes back from the food bowls and litter box, they howl and spit at each other. Tessa inhabits the pillows at the back of my head when I lay down, and her purring is what puts me to sleep, although her yowls, when she gets mad if I roll to my side and disturb her sleep, are quite grating. If my hands are outside the covers, she nudges them for me to pet her—incessantly. So, I hide them under the covers when I’m done and wait for her to give a grumbling meow before she flops behind my head on the pillow and goes to sleep, snoring.

Right now, they both want to follow me into my office, so they are crouched on the floor, berating each other, waiting for the other to walk away, but that never happens. I have to break them up, picking them up to put them where they belong—one on the chair, one on the pillows.

This has been going on for years now. There is no peaceful resolution. They are sworn enemies who are jealous of the attention I pay the other. They will never be besties although they occupy the space of my bedroom for most of the day and night.

We live together, me being the buffer between them. I don’t know why I’m telling you about them this morning, except that Pumpkin is still trying to jump into my lap as I type. I rarely allow that because she doesn’t stop demanding pets and never settles—and I have work to do!

Betta fish are so much easier to care for. Feed them, keep their water the proper temperature, and enjoy the show. Not so cats.

So, for fun, have you ever had pets who were sworn enemies? How did you manage to keep the peace? Answer in the comments below for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card.

P.S.: I just wanted to let you know that I had no discernable side effects from my immunotherapy infusion last Monday. Not one. I sat for an hour while they dripped the medicine in my IV. Then I went about my life this past week without any nausea or pain. It’s so lovely. I’m still recovering my energy level after so many months of chemo, but I’ll get there!

Report Card

Last week…

1. The most noteworthy thing that happened last week was my meeting with my oncologist on Monday. There, he told me I’m in remission from the cancer that once filled my abdomen. Now, there’s a “smudge” of cancer left in my uterus, and I will be seeing a surgeon soon to remove everything! Halleluiah! That does not mean I’ll be cured. I’ll still have Stage IV endometrial cancer. It just means that, for now, we’ve knocked it back. I’ll take that and celebrate!
2. I also underwent my first every-six-weeks immunotherapy infusion. And guess what? It only took an hour—not an entire day—and the best part? No side effects that knock me on my ass! Glory Halleluiah! 
3. I continued work on one author’s edits and finished them.

This next week…

1. This week, I’ll be diving back into finishing up Ignition! Okay, so I said this last week, but I mean it this time. I want to finish it and put it up for pre-order.
2. I have one author’s edits to work on this week—perhaps a second set if the author gets me her pages.
3. So far as personal goals? I’m not ready to diet. I’m still in celebrate mode. LOL. I also can’t find the drive to up my activity. I need some inspiration.

Open Contests

Be sure to check out these posts and enter to win the prizes that are still up for grabs:

1. Flashback: Saddled (Contest) — This one ends tomorrow! Win a FREE book!
2. Memory Game: Places I would like to go… (Contest) — This one ends soon! Win an Amazon gift card!
3. 5 Things I’m Thankful For… (Contest) — This one ends soon! Win an Amazon gift card!
4. Saturday Puzzle-Contest: Dream Dinner Table — This one ends soon! Win an Amazon gift card!
5. Gabbi Grey: Gay Historical Romances (Contest) — This one ends soon! Win a FREE eBook or audiobook!
6. Report Card & Open Contests (New Contest, too!) — Win a pretty pen!
7. Flashback: Tailgating at the Cedar Inn (Contest–3 Winners!) — Win a FREE story!
8. Word Search: Hot Sauce Day (Contest) — Win an Amazon gift card!
9. Anna Taylor Sweringen/Michal Scott: Ellen F. Eglin — Inventor of the Wringer Washer (Contest) Win an Amazon gift card!
10. Saturday Puzzle-Contest: A Wishing Well — Win an Amazon gift card!

UPDATE: The winner is…Deb Brown.
*~*~*

It’s Saturday—so, it’s puzzle time! I promise the picture in the puzzle is much prettier than this one.

I know what wish I would flip my quarter into a wishing well for, but I’d love to know what your wish would be. So, for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, solve the puzzle, then tell me what you’d wish for.

UPDATE: The winner is…Beckie!
*~*~*

When I was a kid, my aunt had a round, white washing machine with a wringer on top. Little did I know I was watching Black history unfold before my eyes as my aunt cranked the clothes through the wringer. That system of wringer rollers was patented by Ellen F. Eglin.

Depending on your source, Ellen F. Eglin was born either in Maryland in February 1836 or in Washington, D.C., in 1849. She lived in Washington D.C. with her parents, brother Charles, and two other siblings. There she worked as a housekeeper. Sources believe it was due to this stoop work that necessity, the mother of invention, tapped Ellen on the shoulder. In 1888, she devised a clothes wringer made of two wooden rollers with a crank used to squeeze excess water from laundry. Unfortunately, she never received just compensation for her invention.

Because of race prejudice, Ellen sold her invention for $18 (about $598 in today’s dollars). $18 wasn’t an inconsiderable sum when at the time a loaf of bread cost five cents, a pound of meat was ten, and a gallon of milk was twenty. But giving away the rights to her patent for such a paltry sum was a disgrace. The American Wringer company made huge profits from the sales of its product based on that patent. Her wringer is still in use today to wring out mops.

We wouldn’t even know about Ellen and her invention if not for feminist Charlotte Smith, who interviewed Ellen for Smith’s The Woman Inventor in 1890. Asked why she sold her patent, Ellen’s answer was heartbreakingly simple. “You know I am Black, and if it was known that a negro woman patented the invention, white ladies would not buy the wringer. I was afraid to be known because of my color in having it introduced to the market; that is the only reason.” She hoped to create another invention and exhibit it at an upcoming Women’s International Industrial Inventors Congress, but her plans never came to pass.

Those of you who may be watching Sir Julian Fellowes’ The Gilded Age will have heard this truth echoed in the situation of the character Peggy Scott. Wanting to be a writer, Peggy is told by the publisher interested in her work that if they don’t hide the fact that she’s black they’ll lose white subscribers in the South.

The year Charlotte Smith interviewed her, Ellen was working as a charwoman for the Department of the Interior. Records show she was still living in Washington D.C. in 1916, and that is the year assigned to her death.

I like to think that by sharing these blogposts I’m following in the footsteps of women like Charlotte Smith and Hallie Q. Brown (featured in my Oct. 2023 and Feb. 2024 D.D. blogposts) lifting up the lives and achievements of women so they won’t be forgotten.

For a chance at a $10 Amazon gift card, share your thoughts in the comments.

Her Heavenly Phantom
by Michal Scott

Forced into a marriage of convenience neither wants, a mild-mannered banker with an intriguing secret discovers his reluctant bride has a secret, too.

Excerpt:

Unwed and pregnant, Emily Hampton needed a husband. Newly freed and hungry for a foothold among the ranks of the Black elite in 1880s Brooklyn, William Broadman had the answer.

His son Harold.

The warmth shared between the two men stood in stark contrast to the cold chaste kiss Harold and his bride shared. Their coolness continued as they walked up the aisle. Guests, oblivious to their shared contempt, showered them with hugs and handshakes. Harold shivered even more as his father and father-in-law back-patted themselves and toasted the couple’s future happiness at the wedding reception. No doubt the arctic chill between the couple would extend to their first lay as man and wife, too.

If they had to that is. Emily Hampton hated this arrangement as much as he did. Therein lay his salvation. If she wanted as little to do with him as he wanted to do with her, his life didn’t have to change at all. Milquetoast straightlaced banker by day. Virile promiscuous masked singer by night.

The lady of the balcony numbered among his many admirers. Her missives of gratitude roiled with cock-stirring heat.

Your singing ravishes my body.

My core weeps for you.

Oh, for a coupling I know would thrust me into a heaven far beyond my grasp.

The last message had reached him after an exhausting browbeating from his father. He’d come to the theater in need of an escape that even singing couldn’t provide. She’d accepted the invite to join him backstage conveyed by way of his manager. In the dark windowless privacy of his dressing room, they’d thrust their way to a heaven beyond both their grasps.

He looked forward to what she’d write to him tonight. He’d need it as he lay alone on his wedding night.

Buylinks:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DBJ47ND6/
B&N https://shorturl.at/B0NLA
KOBO: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/secret-identities-8